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Willobie His Avisa

Or The true Picture of a modest Maid, and of a chast and constant wife. In Hexamiter verse. The like argument wherof, was neuer heretofore published [by Henry Willoby]
  

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CANT. XIII.
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CANT. XIII.

AVISA.
Yea so I thought, this is the end
Of wandring lust, resembling loue,
Wa'st loue or lust, that did intend
Such friendlesse force, as you did moue?
Though you may vaunt of happier fate,
I am content with my estate.
I rather chuse a quiet mind,
A conscience cleare from bloudy sinnes,
Then short delights, and therein find
That gnawing worme, that neuer linnes,
Your bitter speeches please me more,
Then all your wealth, and all your store.
I loue to liue deuoid of crime,
Although I begge, although I pine,
These fading ioyes for little time,
Imbrace who list, I here resine,
How poore I goe, how meane I fare,
If God be pleas'd, I doe not care.
I rather beare your raging ire,
Although you sweare reuengment deepe,
Then yeeld for gaine to lewd desire,
That you might laugh, when I should weepe,
Your lust would like but for a space,
But who could salue my foule disgrace?

14

Mine eares haue heard your taunting words,
Of yeelding fooles by you betraid,
Amongst your mates at open bords,
Know'st such a wife? know'st such a maid?
Then must you laugh, then must you winke,
And leaue the rest for them to thinke.
Nay yet welfare the happie life,
That need not blush at euery view:
Although I be a poore mans wife,
Yet then I'le laugh as well as you,
Then laugh as long, as you thinke best,
My fact shall frame you no such iest.
If I doe hap to leape aside,
I must not come to you for aide,
Alas now that you be denide,
You thinke to make me sore afraide;
Nay watch your worst, I doe not care,
If I offend, pray doe not spare.
You were my friend, you were but dust,
The Lord is he, whome I doe loue,
He hath my hart, in him I trust,
And he doth gard me from aboue,
I waie not death, I feare not hell,
This is enough, and so farewell.